Yet More Fractured Fairytales
by MistWraith
Summary: Yep. The supernatural has once again bitten, er, croaked back at a Winchester. Can Dean be saved, or are lily pads in his future? Each chapter will be a standalone. Crackfic. T for language only. Please R&R.


**Disclaimer:** Nope. No one has left me "Supernatural" in his will. Rats.

**A/N**: Yet another piece of total crackfick in the "Fractured Fairytale" universe. As with the others, this chapter is complete unto itself. This is set after "Playthings" and before "Nightshifter" (just because this is the first time Dean has started flirting again). There's a reference or two to "Fractured Fairytales, Chapter 1: Beauty", but they aren't anything vital and you can read the story without reading that one. Please R&R.

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**Chapter Three: Warts**

Sam Winchester rolled over in the twin bed that was much too small for his 6'5" frame and grimaced. His feet were cold again, which was not surprising since whenever he straightened in his sleep, they would end up sticking off the end of the bed and out from under the not-particularly-thick-or-warm-anyway blanket. He glanced over at the other bed in the motel room and then frowned.

It was empty.

He checked the clock on the small night table that stood between the two beds. The numbers glowed red only faintly, as if the clock was as rundown as the room. 7:32am. Now that Sam was fully awake, he could see light outlining the curtains over the windows. Dean's bed, though, did not even look as if he had slept in it at all and that was a concern.

Sam had come back to the motel alone. He and Dean, after a long day of driving, had gone over to the restaurant and bar—The Trucker's Haven--directly across the road from the motel. Dean had been pounced on—that really _was_ the only word for it—by a young woman who clearly had more than food on her mind. Normally, Sam would have shaken his head at Dean's immediately latching on to a nubile young female, but this was the first time since before Dad had died that horndog Dean had made an appearance and Sam was so pleased at a sign his brother was coming back to himself that he decided to forego his usual bitching.

Not surprisingly, Dean and the Nubile Young Female ™ had left the place together. Since she had said she lived within walking distance of the Haven—down a small dirt path that turned off the main road and wound past some undeveloped open areas—Dean had left the Impala in the motel parking lot. Sam walked to the window and pushed one threadbare curtain aside. The Impala was still there.

Dean's going off for a romp in the hay, so to speak, was not unusual. Well, not before the events in Missouri, anyway. But he never stayed away all night, knowing Sam would be concerned. Sam was used to waking briefly to see Dean, in the middle of the night, slip as quietly as possible into the room. Beginning to worry, Sam dressed quickly, deciding to head back across the road to the Haven.

He opened the door and immediately jumped sideways as something shot past him at ankle level. Whirling around, he began to scan the room, even as he edged toward this duffel and the loaded gun sitting inside it.

"Ribbit."

Sam pivoted and then blinked. Sitting on top of Dean's duffel was a large frog (or toad, he could never figure out the difference). It was staring right at him, then suddenly it began to hop up and down on the duffel bag.

Sam grinned, no longer concerned about getting to his gun. "Hey, frog. Or toad, or whatever. That's my brother's bag. He will definitely _not_ be happy if you get amphibian slime all over it."

"Ribbit, ribbit," was his only response, the frog hopping more vigorously.

"O—kay, if you won't get off yourself..."

He reached for the frog, but it eluded him with a mighty leap that carried it all the way to Sam's bed. As Sam scrambled onto the bed to grab it, it jumped again, zooming past him. When he turned, it was perched on Dean's duffel bag again.

"Ribbit, ribbit, RIBBIT!"

Sam had the oddest feeling that the last, shouted "ribbit" was really "_Sammy!_" And the way the frog was staring at him.…

_Damned if I don't recognize **that** glare!_

He came closer, bent down and stared directly into the frog's _hazel_ eyes. He dropped his head and closed his eyes. "Dean?" He looked back up. "Is that you? Uh, one hop for 'yes' and two for 'no'."

The frog rolled his eyes, but hopped once.

Sam felt a massive headache coming on. He sat back on his haunches and rubbed his hand over his mouth.

"How the hell did this happen?"

The frog glared at him again. Sam could almost hear the words _"That is **not** a yes or no question, asshole!"_ floating in the air and he shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. Um, okay, did this have anything to do with the woman you left the Haven with?"

Hop.

Something niggled at Sam's mind. "Dean, was she a _witch_?"

Hop. Then, hop hop.

"Yes _and_ no? What the hell does that"—a light bulb went off in his head—"an _apprentice_ witch?"

Hop.

"And she did this to you? Practicing?"

Hop hop. Hop hop.

_What?_ Then he realized he had asked two questions, and gotten a no to both.

"Okay. So…her teacher did this?"

Hop then, again, hop hop.

Sam sighed. This was working his last nerve. He thought about his question and the, erm, answer. Yes, it was the person who was training her, but no, it wasn't? Then he smiled.

"Not just a teacher. Someone she's related to?"

Hop.

"Aw, Dean. Her _mother_?"

Hop.

"Well, _that_ makes things more complicated. Not only were you messing with a student, but also a daughter." Sam sighed again. "Nothing for it; we'll have to go talk to her mom."

Dean looked at him without any noticeable enthusiasm.

"Dean, we have no choice. She's probably the only one who can reverse the spell. She's had time to cool off and if we promise we'll leave town right away, maybe she'll do it."

Dean looked at his webbed feet, gave the frog equivalent of a sigh and then hopped once.

Sam picked up a small backpack lying near his duffel. "Good thing we picked this up for when the weapons bag is too big. You can ride in it." He looked back to find that Dean was not paying him any attention, being completely focused on something that seemed to be moving around somewhere off the ground. Sam tracked Dean's gaze and then made an "ewww" face. "Dean! Don't you even _think_ about eating that fly!"

Dean jumped a bit and tried to look as if that were the farthest thing from his mind.

Sam turned back and grabbed the backpack. "We are _so_ going over to the witch's house, right now." He hefted the pack and faced Dean again. "And maybe you'll be a bit more discriminating about who you walk out of a bar with."

Dean stuck a very long tongue out at Sam. With a very dead fly attached to it.

"Damn it, Dean; that's disgusting!" Sam glared at his brother. "No more insects, okay?"

Dean managed to look both guilty and disappointed. He gave a reluctant hop.

Sam lowered the backpack to duffel level, opened the flap and Dean jumped inside. Then Sam slipped his arms inside the straps and settled the pack onto his back. "You okay?" he tossed over his shoulder.

"Ribbit."

Sam started up the path Dean had pointed out last night. It was made of hard-packed earth and it first went past open fields, before entering a woods and climbing gently. A half-mile farther on, it ended in a small glade with a neat, trim single-level house in the center.

No gingerbread, Sam noted. Clearly, not a traditionalist.

Two steps led up to a small porch and the front door. Sam raised his hand to knock, when the door swung open and the witch-in-training stood there, smiling cheerfully at him. Sam had to admit she was truly stunning, even more so in the morning light than she had been in the smoky restaurant-bar. Her smiled widened and she licked her lips seductively. It was then he realized she was using power to increase her seductiveness. A disgusted "ribbit" indicated Dean realized he had been snookered, too.

Not that Dean took a lot of snookering, where the fair sex was concerned.

"Hi, Dean. Good to see you again."

Sam stared at her in disbelief. She appeared entirely unconcerned about, and unmoved by, Dean's situation. "You _do_ notice he's a frog now, right?" Sam asked, more than a little annoyed.

"You don't need to get snippy! Of course, I do. I was here when Mother did it. Just as she's done to all the men I've brought back, and I can't tell you how irritating that is!"

"It's probably no picnic for the guys, either, huh?" Sam said, the annoyance more pronounced now. "You _knew_ this would happen? And you still brought Dean home?"

"Mother is being totally unreasonable! She insists that I live my life the way _she_ wants me to. I'm not even sure I _want_ to follow in the family tradition. And even if I do, what's wrong with wanting something more, too?"

Sam felt suddenly uncomfortable, torn between anger at what had happened to Dean and recognition of the surface resemblance between her and the way he had felt before leaving for Stanford. "Look, it's not that I don't appreciate how you feel--."

"_Ribbit_?"

"Well, a little bit, Dean. I do." Sam looked back up at her. "But I didn't get anyone else involved in my rebellion."

"Mother says I can't date until I complete my training, but that could be _years_ yet. I say I can, and still learn what I need to. And I'm going to keep going out until she sees it my way. I'm sorry about the collateral damage"—she waved at Dean—"but Mother has to know I won't let her dictate to me like that!"

"Ribbit!"

Here mouth worked and then she snapped, "_That_ was uncalled for, Dean!"

Sam was pretty sure that Dean had called her something that rhymed with "witch" and he was in total agreement. He was about to tell her off, when he heard footsteps and an older woman appeared, pulling the door all the way open.

"You are not welcome here. Go away, and take him with you."

Sam swallowed down his anger and pasted his most insincerely sincere smile on his face. "Ma'am, I'm sorry about the argument between you and your daughter, but Dean had no idea about it and got stuck in the middle. I promise if you turn him back, we'll be gone within the hour."

"I've seen your brother's kind before. Any female is fair game. Well, my daughter is the last innocent he'll try to ruin!"

"Innocent? _Her_?" Sam said disbelievingly. "Are you kidding?"

Mother and daughter both adopted identical outraged expressions. The next thing Sam knew, the door was slammed shut in his face. The porch suddenly bucked, dumping Sam onto the ground. Dean gave a startled croak before 6'5" of human landed on him. Sam shook his head then realized his hands were empty. He glanced around him, a hint of panic creeping in when he realized he didn't see his brother—okay, his _froggy_ brother—anywhere. A muffled "ribbit" from somewhere beneath his back made him sit up quickly and then flip over onto his hands and knees.

Dean lay there, little webbed feet splayed out in all directions, looking like nothing so much as an amphibian version of a bear rug. Sam scooped him up and stared into dazed hazel eyes.

"Dean. Oh my God, are you alright? Dean?"

Dean blinked a couple of times then seemed to recover sufficiently to glare at his brother. He let loose an entire string of angry-sounding "ribbits." It was odd, but Sam got the distinct impression Dean was saying something about "laying off the pasta and the candy."

_Great,_ Sam thought, _I'm learning to speak "Frog." Just what I've always wanted! Though, it **is **taking less time than it took me to learn to speak "Dean."_

A little while later, Sam let them both into the motel room. Dean had not uttered even a single croak on the walk back. As he placed Dean onto his duffel, Sam thought he had never seen a more dejected frog. He resisted the urge to reach out and pat Dean on the head, pretty sure his brother would respond to the "chick flick moment" by slapping him with his tongue or something equally gross.

Sam set his mouth in a grim line. "Okay, back to square one. There has to be another way."

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Three hours later, Sam was ready to take that trip to the Grand Canyon Dean had talked about—and drive them both over the edge. Bobby, after he had stopped laughing, hadn't been able to think of a single thing that would help them. Neither had Joshua or Jefferson. Even Marie Devereaux, a voudon priestess whom Dean had met on his solo gig in New Orleans, had told Sam she was helpless to reverse someone else's spell.

For a while, Dean had hovered next to him, peering at the laptop. Sam was increasingly worried Dean was becoming, well, more froggy. His big brother hadn't even looked when Sam accidentally clicked on the stored address for "Busty Asian Beauties", but Dean's hazel eyes had lit up when a site entitled "Curing Your Frog" had opened to a page showing a bunch of winged insects. Sam couldn't shut the page fast enough.

Now, though, Dean appeared to have given up. He was stretched out on his duffel, making occasional froggy whuffling noises. Sam was working hard to ignore them because he really, _really_ did not want to believe his tough big brother was, um, _sniffling_.

Truth be told, Sam was _this_ close to giving up himself. Nothing he had turned up had offered out even a sliver of hope of reversing the spell. At this point, he had run out of sites that might have something "concrete" and moved onto ones steeped in folklore, myth and legend. Usually these sites were so much hokum, mixes of fairytales, old wives' tales and movie lore. Still, every now and then, there was a true gem among all the dross.

Wearily, he scrolled past listings of stories and fairytales. There did not appear to be much of anything else at this location and he was ready to close it, when his eye fell on one listing. It took a moment to register then the fireworks went off—even as he berated himself for not thinking of it sooner--and he grinned broadly. He shut the site immediately, opened Google and entered a name. One result was the society section of the New York Times and Sam clicked on it eagerly. His grin grew even wider.

Yes! In New York City, right now. Only a few hours drive. Sam reached for his cell phone then hesitated and glanced over at his brother. The whuffling sounds had ceased—for which Sam was very grateful; they had been seriously upsetting—and now Dean was just staring dejectedly at the floor. He probably wouldn't even notice Sam slipping into the bathroom with the cell phone and the backpack.

There was _no_ doubt in Sam's mind that Dean would object vociferously to Sam's plan. There was equally no doubt Dean was going to be going to New York, protests or not. Once inside the bathroom, Sam closed the door and then placed the backpack on the shelf over the sink. Reaching into one pocket of his jeans, Sam pulled out a small pocketknife that he now used to punch a few holes into the backpack. Using the backpack to make sure Dean had no choice but to go along with the plan was one thing; suffocating his brother in the process was another. And _very_ hard to explain to most people, who tended to look a little askance at fratricide. Or even frogicide.

After he finished, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number he had taken off his computer for the Pierre Hotel. Giving his name to the front desk, he asked to be put through and was put on hold, the individual who initially took the call indicating that she would check to see if his call would be welcome. A minute later, he heard a familiar laugh and he launched into a recitation of the day's events.

Five minutes after that, he was ready to head for New York.

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Sam turned into the parking lot. Manhattan lay ahead, just across the Hudson River. He had decided to leave the car in New Jersey and take the train across, rather than risk acquiring even the smallest ding on the Impala's sleek finish. Dean was mad enough at him without adding damage to his baby to the mix. Sam glanced over at the backpack on the passenger seat. It stood still and silent, and Sam was becoming increasingly worried.

Back at the motel, Sam had scooped Dean up and deposited him into the backpack, securing the flap firmly, before explaining his plan. Not surprisingly, Dean was not enamored with the idea and had spent the early part of the trip ribbiting like mad and trying to get out of the backpack. For some time now, though, Dean had not uttered a sound. An occasional movement assured Sam that Dean was not physically injured, but the silence was not the silence Sam was used to. The one that said, "As soon as we are away from other people, I am _so_ going to kick your ass!" Instead, this one had a defeated and unhappy feel to it. Sam hated doing this to Dean, but if the alternative was leaving Dean in this condition, well, Sam could live with the fallout.

Dean remained quiet all through the train ride, which was probably a good thing, all things considered. A frog on the train might have caused some consternation. On the other hand, this being New York City, they would probably have only shrugged and insisted he pay another fare.

The Pierre Hotel, directly across from Central Park, reeked of old money. It was quietly luxurious in a way that spoke of the kind of wealth that shunned glitz for elegance, flash for expensive understatement. The lobby was probably bigger than the entire motel in Pennsylvania he and Dean had stayed at. A bunch of very snooty-looking staff stood around the lobby at various stations; most of them eyed his travel-stained and hunting-worn clothing suspiciously, clearly doubting he numbered among the hotel's clientele. If Dean had not been frogified, he would definitely have taken umbrage—a fellow student at Stanford was _always_ taking umbrage at something and Sam had developed a fondness for the phrase—and started behaving in a way calculated to _convince_ any doubters on the staff that the Winchesters were a pair of Visigoths, here to storm the castle.

At the reception desk, Sam gave his name and told the clerk, who did not bother to hide her disbelief, he was expected. She dialed the suite and spoke into the receiver softly. An instant later, her demeanor toward Sam changed markedly. Smiling broadly, she ushered him to the elevator and sent him to the 37th floor and provided him with the suite number.

Sam only had to knock once before a buzzer sounded. Assuming it meant he could enter, he tried the handle and one of the two double doors swung open; he entered into a beautifully decorated foyer and from there, into the living room. It was elegantly appointed in traditional European style. Seated on the large sofa was the person he had come to see. She was as elegant as the room, and despite considerable age, sat as straight as a fireplace poker. She was smiling fondly at him and he grinned back.

"Princess Maria, thanks so much for letting us come," Sam said, giving her a slight (and slightly awkward) bow.

Princess Maria Catherine Therese von Hapsburg gave a throaty laugh. "No, no. It is I who must thank you. For the second time, you have brought something _unusual_ into an old woman's life."

"Really? What old woman would that be?"

"Very good, young Samuel. You may now take me to the ball." She stood up. "Come, let me see your poor brother."

Sam carefully slipped the backpack off his shoulder, already concerned about Dean's condition. Not to mention, state of mind. He opened the backpack, reached in and lifted Dean out. Dean looked totally miserable and he fixed Sam with a stare that practically croaked, "Traitor!" Then, before Sam could react, Dean leaped out of his brother's hands, to the sofa end table, from there to a writing desk and then to the window sill. The window was open and Dean began to push vigorously against the screen.

"Dean!" Sam charged over and grabbed him before Dean could batter any kind of a hole in the screen. "We're thirty-seven floors up! Look, I know you're angry at me and, okay, not too happy in general right now, but throwing yourself out of a window thirty-seven stories up is not the best idea you've ever had!" He raised Dean up to eye level. "Give this a chance. Please."

Dean had never been proof against a plea from Sam before and he wasn't now, either. He gave a slight hop in Sam's hands to signify assent, to Sam's great relief. Sam carried him over to where Princess Maria was standing. The princess was looking very amused.

"Really, beautiful Dean, I do not know why _you_ are so upset. After all, I'm the one who will be kissing a frog. It was _much_ more fun when you were being Sleeping Beauty."

Dean tilted his head and looked surprised. He clearly had not viewed it that way. With a soft croak, he puckered his lips and closed his eyes. The princess, ever game, leaned forward and planted one on the frog. The reaction was instantaneous. Even Sam, who had been hoping against hope that it would work, was astonished at how quickly the transformation occurred.

Which meant, of course, he had started out holding a frog and ended up holding 185 pounds of human a few inches off the ground. _Well, this wasn't too bright, Winchester. Next time you try this, at least sit down!_ He staggered but managed to keep his feet; he let go as soon as Dean was standing on his own.

It was only then he noticed that Dean's clothing apparently had not made the transition (or Dean hadn't been wearing them when the spell was cast. Perfectly possible, considering the reason Dean had left with the Bitch-in-Training in the first place.). Judging from the horror creeping over Dean's face, he had just realized he was butt naked in front of Princess Maria, who was eyeing him with frank admiration and a smile on her face.

"Oh, my," she said, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Just like one of Father's stallions."

Dean's mouth worked several times before a sound finally escaped. "Ahhhhhh!!!"

_Wow!_ Sam thought,_ I would never have believed that Dean could even hit that note!_

Dean whirled and bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. "Sam!" he shouted through the door. "Clothes. Now!"

Uh oh. Sam knew his brother would not be happy with the news he was about to impart. "Uh, Dean, I had no idea you would turn back without any clothes."

"What? You didn't notice I wasn't wearing anything when I was a frog?" Dean snarled. "Clothes, Sam. Get me some clothes!"

"Dean, it will take two hours to get back to the car!"

"I don't care if you have to spend the rest of the day _making_ the damn things, just get me something to wear!"

A gentle hand fell on Sam's arm. The princess was handing him a credit card. "There are clothing stores all along Fifth Avenue. You will be able to purchase anything you need."

Sam shook his head. "I can't take this."

She laughed. "Samuel, would you deny an old woman the pleasure of once again buying things for a beautiful young man? Go." She pushed him toward the door of the suite. Princess Maria smiled. She was enjoying herself immensely. This was the second time these boys had brought some enjoyment to a life that had, in truth, become a little dull. People seemed to think that when one reached her age, one's only interests were in sitting quietly or playing shuffleboard. Feh.

On the other hand, magical spells and turning frogs into princes—well, at least, into stunning young men—she could get used to that. And the view could be spectacular! It probably was not nice of her, but she could not resist the urge to bedevil poor Dean yet again. Picking up the set of suite keys from the end table, she walked to the bedroom door. She said nothing, not wanting to give him any more warning than necessary.

As she began to open the door, she heard a muffled "eep!" followed immediately by rustling. By the time she was fully inside the bedroom, Dean was standing near the king-sized bed with the bedspread draped strategically around him. He was glaring at her.

"Ma'am!" he said indignantly (she approved of his politeness, even at a time like this). "This isn't, you know, right."

"Well, it is _my_ bedroom, after all, and I do have the key." Eyeing his makeshift toga, she laughed. "Just what is it with you and linens, dear boy? First the blanket at the hospital and now this." She gestured toward a portion of the wall that seemed to have a sectioned mirror attached to it. "That's the bathroom door; there's a robe in there that the hotel provides."

Dean backed away carefully, reached behind and folded the door open, then jumped inside and closed the door again quickly. There was silence for a moment then a plaintive voice asked, "Is this the only robe they gave you? There isn't one for a guy?"

"I stay in the same suite every time I am in New York. When they know I am going to be here, they set the room up for me."

The sigh was so deep she could hear it through the door and across the bedroom. Then the door opened and Dean stepped out. She was aware enough of the tender feelings of young men to refrain from laughing out loud. The robe was pink silk, with lace edges, and while it reached almost to her ankles, it barely made it to Dean's knees. His expression spoke of mortal embarrassment. She pretended not to notice.

"There is food in the kitchen. Are you hungry?"

His eyes lit up. "Yes, ma'am. Starved. Sam wouldn't let me have any flies," he muttered, then his eyes grew wide and he looked even more embarrassed than he had a minute ago, something she would not have believed possible. He dropped his head and groaned. "I can't believe I just said that!"

"Said what?" she asked innocently and was rewarded by a brilliant smile. _Gott in Himmel_, but he was beautiful! She walked over and tucked her arm in his and led him to the kitchen, where she ended up watching him with something akin to awe as he tore through everything that was in the refrigerator.

She finally left him to finish off a massive plate of cold cuts, various cheeses and bread. It had been a long time since she had entertained a handsome young man, in _any_ form, and she was suddenly overcome with the desire to look once again at the images of days long past.

Dean found her sitting on the sofa, leafing through a large photograph album, with a couple more sitting on the coffee table in front of her. She smiled up at him and patted the cushion next to her. "Come, sit with me."

He looked as if he were about to leap over the sofa, then he glanced down at the short robe, closed his eyes once, sighed and walked around the couch at the far end, sliding in between it and the coffee table. He very carefully pulled the robe down as he sat. Still not satisfied, he grabbed the third cushion and placed it across his lap, smiling brightly if insincerely.

She chuckled. "Naughty boy, would you deny an old woman her pleasure." To her amazement, he blushed. She would have patted his knee if the cushion were not in the way; she settled for his arm. "That is me, at sixteen."

He whistled. "You were a stunner." His face changed as he realized there was an insult potentially lurking in that comment. "Uh, not that you're, you know, ugly or anything now." He winced, seeming to suspect he had only made it worse.

She almost fell off the couch, she was laughing so hard. He really was a priceless child! Much rougher at the edges than she was used to and not steeped in the two-facedness one found in "polite" society. She suspected that if he wished to insult her, he would be much more direct about it.

"Thank you, Dean. I will take that in the spirit in which it was intended."

He was turning the pages in the album, his face disbelieving and his eyes round. "Whoa, Princess, didn't look as if you guys were hurting for anything."

She shook her head. "No, I was born to wealth, position and privilege. And, indeed, much of my early life was very fairytale. But things changed and much of the life faded into the past." Her voice became more brisk. "As it should have, _liebchen_. Back then, I never thought or cared about how those not so fortunate as myself lived. Many things are better now than they were then. Not everything, but many things.

"Fortunately, for us, my father had a very un-Hapsburg head for business. He had entered into some ventures here in the United States, in Canada and in Great Britain before the first World War and was very successful. I cannot say I have ever lacked for anything. And I recognize how fortunate I have been."

She smiled fondly. "Ah, the balls. How grand they were!" Her smile turned wicked. "And how many handsome young men danced attendance! Breaking their hearts was an art I had mastered at an early age."

Dean grinned, his eyes gleaming. "Princess, you sound like my kinda woman."

She stood abruptly and walked over to an old record player. Pulling one album out of a cabinet, she placed it on the record player and started the turntable. The sounds of a waltz echoed from the speaker. Princess Maria turned around and gestured imperiously to Dean.

"Come. Dance with me, handsome young man."

Dean's eyes widened and he glanced around as if seeking an escape route. "Uh...um, I don't dance."

"Can you count to three?" she asked.

"Hey!" Indignation colored Dean's voice. "Even without using my fingers!"

"Then you can waltz." She waved at him again. "You're not scared of an old woman, are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Like I'd fall for _that_." Then he sighed, put the cushion aside and stood up. "Why not? What's one more embarrassment in a day already full of them?"

She placed one of his hands at her waist and held the other, while putting her free hand on one of his shoulders. She explained the dance was a simple three-count and bade him listen to the music. A few minutes later, she decided she quite liked the way his tongue protruded just slightly past his lips as he concentrated. After a while, his grimace of concentration became a smile and his natural athleticism and grace came to the fore.

Which was why, when Sam arrived at the suite laden with packages, he was greeted by the sight of his brother, in a pink, lace-trimmed bathrobe, whirling Princess Maria Catherine Therese von Hapsburg around the living room, to the strains of _The Blue Danube_—and laughing. Since Dean had not had much reason to laugh outright for some time now, Sam couldn't keep a grin from his face.

Of course, that did not mean he intended to let the opportunity pass him by. He located his cell phone, flipped it open and...

_Click!_

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_

"Sam, you are _so_ fucking dead!"

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**A/N**: Hope it gave you a chuckle. There will be more, should yet another insane plot bunny rear its crackfic head!


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